Pokemon: The Isolis Adventure
by distantcharisma
Summary: In the faraway region of Isolis, a streetwise kid is about to start his very own Pokemon adventure - by accident. Join Jordan Basil as he attempts to earn gym badges and defeat the mysterious organization known only as "the Company" in an epic misadventure. Rated T for language and violence. All characters are OCs until I decide to use the real ones. I do not own Pokemon.
1. Prologue - Late Night Sojourn

Prologue – Late Night Sojourn

_An undisclosed location, deep in the heart of a large city_

"Man, I hate having to make these frickin' late night runs," grumbled the heavyset man behind the wheel of the grey truck.

His companion, a slender man who like the driver was clad all in black, grunted in agreement from the passenger seat. The men had been driving since sundown, and it was now approaching 3:30 AM. They were bone-tired; in fact the heavyset man had been forced to take over driving when the thin man had fallen asleep at the wheel, nearly causing them to drive right off the highway into the flocks of roosting Starly which inhabited the median.

"Well, at least we're almost there, eh?" the heavyset man said with a hint of sarcastic cheer. When no response was forthcoming, he glanced to his right, only to notice that his comrade's guttural mutterings had in fact been those of a man in a deep sleep. Sighing in exasperation, the driver turned his attention back to the road, and pulled a left at the abandoned intersection that the truck was approaching. He coasted to a stop further down the block, in front of a grimy warehouse that was almost too inconspicuous in this city of drab, dingy buildings. Putting the truck in park, opening the door, and clambering down, he ambled over to the pull-down sheet metal entrance to the warehouse and knocked four times.

The heavyset man waited impatiently for a few seconds, then abruptly barked at the door, "Open up, dumbass!" He accentuated the harsh sentence with a loud whack of his fist on the garage door, and was rewarded with a yelp from inside followed by the sound of something crashing to the floor. After a brief moment of fumbling inside, the door began to creak open, revealing an overturned chair and a disheveled, bleary-eyed, scrawny man, also dressed in black.

"Hey, what the hell, Grayson?" whined the door operator in a high-pitched, nasal voice that could make a Whismur writhe in agony. Grayson pushed past him contemptuously, tossed his keys at the man over his shoulder, and ordered, "Drive this rig into the warehouse and unload the 'cargo'. I'm gonna go see the Boss."

As he began to stomp off, he remembered to add, "Oh, and wake up Nigel. That useless shit'll sleep all night if you let him." Grayson strode onward, studiously ignoring the hate-filled stare that he could feel burning into his back. He walked deeper into the dimly lit warehouse, hearing the sounds of scampering Rattata and rustling Pidove, dodging the occasional crate, heading toward the rectangle of yellow light at the back of the warehouse.

Approaching the open door, Grayson felt a sudden chill travel down his spine. He cautiously peered into the office. The interior was lit by a single desk lamp, which cast more shadows than light in the crowded room. Behind a tall, ornate desk in the center of the room, a high-backed chair sat with its back toward the door. A single red eye glared from the bulky figure of a Dusknoir standing in one shadowy corner. Grayson shuddered when its gaze met his.

Moving on, his eyes focused on the chair, which had begun to spin around, revealing its occupant: a tall man in a stark white suit, with gleaming white skin, silvery hair, and piercing red eyes, clearly an albino. He sat slightly hunched over, for he was stroking a purple Glameow – an extremely rare Shiny variant. Grayson groaned internally despite his apprehension. _Great Arceus, I respect the man, but must he dress and act so stereotypically? He looks like every frickin' villain ever – which is dumb. It gives the wrong impression of the Company._

Interrupting Grayson's train of thought, the Boss spoke in a gruff British accent. "Ah, good morning, Mr. Mitchell. Had a pleasant trip, I trust?" Grayson bit back the urge to reply sarcastically, fingering the single Pokeball on his belt. Instead, he simply nodded, and muttered, "The cargo is being unloaded right now."

"Ah, excellent," exclaimed the Boss. "Everything is right on schedule…or something like that." He laughed at his own clichéd response, and then suddenly turned cold and serious. "Now leave, please. I have a lot of work to finish by morning." He swiveled around in his chair once again.

Grayson gratefully retreated from the open door, receding into the darkness of the warehouse, still feeling the single eye of the Dusknoir still upon him. That thing really gave him the goddamn heebie-jeebies.

On the way back to the truck, he noted Nigel and the door guard struggling with a heavy crate. As Grayson approached, Nigel squealed as he dropped his end of the crate. One side fell off, various Pokeballs spilled out and rolled across the warehouse floor like marbles, and Grayson's headache grew just a bit worse.

"Goddammit, Nigel!" he exploded, the thinner man cringing from his outburst. "Pick those things up! You really want them busting open all over the frickin' place? They were hard enough to steal in the first place!" The two smaller men and Grayson began scanning the floor for the fist-sized objects, picking them up as they went.

None of them noticed the single red-and-white Pokeball rolling toward the open garage door and into the street, coming to a stop in a pile of trash on the side of the road. It would take an unusually observant eye to distinguish it from the rubbish.

The eye of a streetwise kid, perhaps.


	2. Chapter 1 - Day Damn One

Chapter 1: "Day Damn One"

_In an apartment block in West Riagniv City_

It was Sunday, and Jordan Basil was perfectly content.

Lounging on the beige sofa in his tiny, cluttered apartment, he sighed in satisfaction as he flicked through channels on the old television which sat on a rickety card table a few meters from his face. Jordan was unabashedly indolent, and there was nothing he liked better than lying on his couch in basketball shorts and a ratty T-shirt – which was exactly what he was doing, since he didn't have to work today.

Jordan was somewhat overweight. Regardless, he could be considered "a handsome fellow" if you happened to be talking to an arrogant high-society type from the coast or perhaps just "cute" if you were talking to anyone else. Jordan stood at 5'9", with deeply bronzed skin, a giant mop of curly black hair, and striking golden eyes which captivated the attention of anyone who glanced into them due to their unusual color and luster. However, the baby fat hadn't quite melted from his face, and it was this roundish appearance and the pervasive, rough, black stubble on his cheeks, chin and neck which kept him from ascending from the "handsome fellow" tier to the legendary "oh god he's so hot I just want to melt when he looks at me" tier.

Jordan looked very different from most of the residents of West Riagniv City, who tended to be tall, thin and coal-skinned, and his appearance and tendency to put not only his foot but his whole leg in his mouth meant that he made a lot more enemies than he intended to. Since more often than not, these belligerents had Pokemon with them, and Jordan had none of his own, this meant he was frequently forced to flee for his life from squawking Starly and yapping Herdier.

Jordan had never had a Pokemon of his own, because meeting with a Professor who would give him a starter Pokemon was a magical opportunity with the prerequisite of having money, of which Jordan had approximately none. He worked at a local fast-food joint, but his puny salary was only enough to support a lifestyle of cheap food and cable television. He had no money for Pokemon food or Pokeballs and whatever the hell else a Pokemon Trainer needed. Besides, training Pokemon was a lot of hard work, and required perseverance and inner strength – qualities which Jordan lacked in spades. He was much happier lying on his couch, watching terrible sitcoms. His favorite was _The Fresh Prince of Weardel_, a show about a sassy, streetwise kid who moves in with his relatives in the rich coastal town of Weardel. Surrounded by frolicking Spritzee and Furfrou in a posh seaside mansion, the kid was way out of place. Jordan thought it was hilarious.

The husky youth was broken out of his _Fresh Prince _reverie by the vibration of the scratched black flip phone in his pocket. He dug it out and opened it up, holding it over his face and squinting to make out the letters on the screen against the glare from the window. After a moment of straining his eyes he gave up, and simply pressed the "talk" button, pushing the phone against his ear. "Hello…?"

"Hey, what's good, my numba one Stunfisk?" piped an easygoing, cheerful voice from the other end of the line. Jordan grinned as he recognized the favorite expression of his good (some might say only) friend Jaden White.

"Man, what the hell you think is up?" Jordan replied in his own smooth voice. "Y'already know I never leave my damn house."

"Shit, man, I saw a flying Grumpig earlier, so I thought maybe yo' lazy ass had finally decided to rejoin the mothafuckin' world," Jaden laughed. "Hey, listen, homie. I got some shit I want you to see right quick. Think you can get those broken ass legs of yours to work long enough to get the fuck over here?"

Jordan groaned. "Goddamn, man, the _Fresh Prince_ is about to come on…"

"Come on, man, it's really important."

"What's more important than the goddamn _Fresh Prince_?"

"It's a surprise, homie. Now get down here!" A click sounded from the other end.

Jordan groaned to himself. Still, he knew that if he didn't go, Jaden would just call him back over and over until he did. Slipping the phone into his pocket, he stood up with some difficulty, grabbed his keys and his wallet and headed for the door.

Jordan Basil was no longer perfectly content.

Walking for any reason was one of Jordan's least favorite activities. Although, since he lacked Pokemon, he pretty much had to walk to get anywhere, he had a perpetual limp which made doing it for any period of time quite uncomfortable. He had considered getting a cane, both for support and self-defense, but didn't have the money to get a decent one. Fortunately for him, he had devised a way of galloping that put as little pressure on his bad right knee as possible yet still allowed him to move at a relatively quick pace for when he needed to make his escape from pugnacious Pokemon.

Jordan had been limping through block after block of apartments when he realized he was taking the long way, and that he could just cut through the old warehouse district. As a lazy man, this was a very tempting idea, since it would shave ten minutes and a long walk off of his route. However, West Riagniv City was well-known for its gangs, and there was a good chance that he would run into a member or twelve if he took the shortcut. He considered his choice for a minute, then shrugged and turned left into the warehouse district.

The district was four blocks wide, and Jordan successfully made it through two and a half of them before his fears were realized and three young men materialized from the open door of one of the rundown warehouses across the street, smiling maliciously. The trio was covered in tattoos, clad in basketball shorts and T-shirts, and wore the silver chains and green caps of the notorious "West Riagniv Cartel", one of the two most notorious gangs in Riagniv. Jordan thought they looked like they'd rather enjoy mugging him, and began to hobble faster.

"Hey!" one of them yelled after him. "Slow down there, Ninjask!" The other two chuckled as they pulled Pokeballs out of their pockets. _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…_ The word reverbated through Jordan's head as he glanced back at the youths. Unfortunately, this proved to be his undoing, for as he turned his attention away from the sidewalk, his foot struck a loose tile and he tumbled headlong into the gutter.

Jordan swore loudly as he landed on his hands and knees. Behind him, the gang members tossed their Pokeballs to the ground, and they opened in a flash of white light, revealing a Scraggy and a Pawniard. Both were fairly small, but plenty threatening to the defenseless Jordan. The Scraggy danced back and forth, waving its orange fists, while the Pawniard glared at Jordan and brandished its blades menacingly. His heart pounding, his knees burning with pain, and sweat dripping into his eyes, Jordan looked about desperately for something to defend himself with – and his gaze miraculously alighted on a small spherical object in a pile of trash a couple of feet away. Through his sensory overload, Jordan's brain managed to register the red-and-white pattern of the object as that of a Pokeball.

In a last-ditch attempt to preserve his life, Jordan lunged forward, his hand clutching at the air, _grab it, yes! _His fingers closed around the ball, his thumb striking the button as his head struck the pavement.

What happened next, Jordan would only remember in a series of disjointed images, tableaus of a frozen world.

The blinding light searing his eyes.

The small silhouette of the creature that emerged from the Pokeball: small, vaguely humanoid but more squat, bouncing up and down slightly on the balls of its feet.

The little Pokemon looking around confusedly.

The approaching Scraggy and Pawniard lunging for it.

The mystery Pokemon somehow jabbing its fingers into the Scraggy whilst kicking the Pawniard in the head.

The two attackers on the ground, writhing.

The shocked gang members recalling their Pokemon, and turning to run as Jordan's rescuer menaced them.

It was at this point when Jordan passed out unexpectedly.

….

When Jordan regained consciousness and opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was not his apartment as he was expecting, but a face. A rather odd face, with purple skin, lazy yellow eyes, and red cheeks on either side of a nervous-looking grin. Jordan's eyes traveled downward and realized it was not a purple clown but in fact the Pokemon who had rescued him.

_Huh_, thought Jordan dazedly. _I don't remember ever meeting anything this fuckin' freaky-looking._

The little Pokemon cocked its head, opened its mouth, and spoke its name in a guttural croak that was somehow quizzical. "Cro-a-gunk?"


End file.
